A Traitor's Tears (20 page)

Finally, we were admitted to Sir Edward Heron's study.

To meet with disappointment.

I had found myself in front of Sir Edward – and Parkes – to face questioning when I was suspected of witchcraft. That was when I learned that Sir Edward, though he was a man of integrity, was also capable of getting fixed ideas into his head. I had had the horrible experience of hearing evidence that should have been in my favour, twisted to point a finger at me instead, while Sir Edward remained blind to what was happening.

‘But,' he said when Brockley and I, talking by turns, had given our account of the night's events, ‘you say you couldn't identify the intruder? Who is to say who it might have been, and why assume that it has anything to do with the matter of Mistress Cobbold? It is more likely to have been a common housebreaker, entering the wrong window by mistake. That is, of course, if there ever was a housebreaker at all.'

We stared at him, astounded. Dale, in a voice high with indignation, said: ‘But I
saw
him! I saw him coming in at the window! I've never been so frightened!'

Sir Edward smiled at her. ‘A loyal wife is a precious gem, and I don't doubt that you are such a gem, Mrs Brockley.' He turned the smile towards me. ‘And you are an honest woman, Mrs Stannard; of that I have no doubt. But what did you see? You were wakened by alarming noises in the next room, and you ran to discover what was wrong. You saw your tirewoman, Mrs Brockley, sitting up in bed. She was screaming. Mr Brockley was lunging towards the window with a sword in his hand. But did you see the intruder?'

‘I think I glimpsed the tips of his fingers, just as he started back down his ladder. We found the ladder still there in the morning. It was one of ours. It's usually kept in an outhouse shed. Anyone could get at it and plenty of people know it's there. People who visit the house from time to time would mostly know. Work is forever being done in the grounds.'

‘Never mind the ladder. You
think
you glimpsed fingertips. That's all. And only by moonlight, and there was Mr Brockley here, waving a sword and rushing towards the window; all in a poor light and flying shadows. I put it to you, Mrs Stannard, that you may not have seen fingertips at all, only shadows, and after all,' said Sir Edward, shaking his head over my gullible female nature, ‘Mr Brockley is under heavy suspicion of being the killer of Mrs Cobbold. What if he and his no-doubt devoted wife arranged this pretty scene for your benefit? She screamed. He banged about. Then, when you came to the door, he made his leap across the room, sword in hand. All to help you feel quite sure that Mr Brockley is being hounded, perhaps to suggest that someone unknown wanted to make it seem that he had slain himself in fear or remorse. What about that?'

‘It's nonsense!' Sybil was as outraged as Dale. ‘Mistress Stannard is not so easily gulled!'

‘Also,' I said, ‘Brockley did not know I was sleeping in the next room. My little son has been ill and I have been spending my nights in the nursery with him. He's better now, and I came back to my own room late last night. Brockley didn't know that. He was surprised to see me when I ran in, hearing the disturbance.'

‘I expect he did know,' said Sir Edward, smiling indulgently. ‘There are few secrets among household servants.'

Groaning inwardly, I began to talk about Jarvis and the cipher letter. Surely, I said, Jarvis's death and the discovery of the letter suggested that something was amiss somewhere that might have something to do with Jane Cobbold but not with her gossiping habits or Brockley's attitude to them. Sir Edward only smiled indulgently once more.

‘I cannot believe for a moment that there is any connection between Mrs Cobbold and whatever it was that Jack Jarvis was mixed up in. That, I feel sure, was quite separate. He was up to something, evidently, but unfortunately fell victim to footpads as many others have done when travelling alone. No, I must dismiss that. I also fear that I have serious doubts about this story of an intruder, though I am sure that you ladies are here in good faith – except perhaps for Mrs Brockley, and she can be excused on grounds of wifely devotion. I will, of course, think the matter over, and I thank you for bringing it to my attention. Now, I am busy this morning and have no more spare time. Parkes, however, will call my wife and she will see that you have refreshments before you leave. Good day to you. How fortunate that you have cool weather for travelling.'

We declined the refreshments and took our leave, politely, although we were inwardly seething. Dale burst out in fury on the way home. ‘He's determined to make it be Roger! He twists things! I don't think he's even
tried
to consider anyone else. It's not right. It's not right!'

‘No, it isn't,' I agreed. ‘But what we can do about it, heaven alone knows.' I thought hard, though, as we rode on. Wyse was in the forefront of my mind. Nothing that I had learned so far seemed to make the slightest sense, but Wyse was there, always there. He had been at Jarvis's cottage when Jane Cobbold arrived, and she had very likely overheard some of their conversation before they knew she was within earshot. It brought the three of them close together just before Jane's death.

I puzzled and wondered. Wyse had deciphered the mysterious letter found on Jarvis's body, and the result didn't fit in anywhere. He
could
have been the intruder who threatened Brockley, though there was no certainty. Wyse had offered marriage to me. Was that as straightforward as it seemed or was it a ploy to gain command of my household – and of me – so as to control anything we might say? Wyse! Wyse!

I said aloud: ‘I think I want to know a great deal more about Roland Wyse. I must decide how best to go about it.'

Brockley said, ‘Wouldn't Lord Burghley or Mr Walsingham be able to tell us something? They must know his background.'

‘I do intend to write to Lord Burghley,' I said. ‘I had better do that today. I must think what questions to ask. Well.' I patted Jewel, and encouraged her into a trot. ‘Let's get home in good time for dinner. Hawthorn wants to go marketing in Woking this afternoon and I daresay he'll keep to his plans, in spite of last night's disturbance.'

Hawthorn often did his own marketing, vying with Brockley for the chance to visit Woking or Guildford. He would hitch Rusty or Bronze to a small cart and set off, returning with bags of flour or rice or salt, or foreign goods that never reached the shops in Hawkswood village, such as oranges or grapes or certain spices.

He did indeed intend to go to Woking that afternoon. ‘I'm low on a good many things,' he said, coming into the hall to present me with a list to inspect, along with an estimate of the cost. ‘Life has to go on, even if we have been invaded in the night. It would still have to, even if we had a foreign army quartered on us.'

‘I hope we'll never have
that
,' I said with feeling. ‘That woman Mary Stuart would like to snatch the crown from Queen Elizabeth and she'd bring a Spanish army here to help her do it, without a second thought, but I hope her scheming has been stopped now.'

The last conspiracy I had helped to uncover would undoubtedly have led to a Spanish invasion, had it been allowed to ripen. I shuddered at the thought.

Ben and Joan Flood adhered to the Old Religion, and occasionally slipped away to somewhere – I never asked where – to hear an illegal Mass. Quite probably, they believed that Mary Stuart ought to be queen of England. I had never asked them about that, either. Just now, they were out in the kitchen and therefore out of hearing. But if they had heard me, I knew they would have ignored my comments. They and others like them seemed unable to imagine what a Spanish invasion would mean. In any case, I had other things on my mind just now. I added an item or two to Hawthorn's list, amended the quantity of flour he wanted to buy, and sent him off. I wanted to rest, and sit with Harry, and
think
.

My efforts to think bore little fruit that afternoon. I was too tired after my broken night and the wearisome and useless ride to call on Heron. I took a short rest and visited Harry, who was mending fast, and then sat in the hall, trying to draft a letter to Cecil. Somehow I couldn't get it right. I was still there, frowning over a second unsatisfactory draft, when Hawthorn came back at frantic speed, clattering into the courtyard at a canter, the wheels of the cart bouncing on the cobbles.

Drawn by the sound of headlong hooves, I went to the window that overlooked the courtyard and stared in astonishment as Hawthorn's cart came through the gate arch at full pelt. Hawthorn was standing up at the front like a Roman charioteer, brandishing his whip, while Bronze, his bay coat streaked with sweat, had foam round his mouth, ears laid flat back and eyes ringed with white. I rushed outside.

‘Madam! Mistress Stannard!' Hawthorn almost fell off the cart in front of me. Simon and Arthur had run to see to the sweating Bronze, and were soothing him and giving Hawthorn indignant looks, which he ignored.

‘I got everything!' Hawthorn gasped. I had never seen my big and occasionally aggressive chief cook look so panic-stricken. ‘Then I tipped a groom to watch the cart while I went to the inn for a drink and my cousin from Cobbold Hall was there so we drank together and my cousin said … he said …'

‘Said what? Hawthorn, tell me!'

‘Master Cobbold went today to dine with Sir Edward Heron! He came back and … He talks to my cousin a lot, now his wife's gone. A man has to talk to someone …'

‘I daresay!'

‘He – Master Cobbold – must have got to Sir Edward's house just after you left. Sir Edward told him of your visit and said in his opinion, the story about the man who got in last night and attacked Brockley here was a tarradiddle and meant to lift suspicion off Brockley – and he's made up his mind, he's going to have Brockley arrested again and he'll see to it within the next two days!'

‘What?' My stomach began to turn somersaults.

Brockley had appeared from somewhere and was at my side. ‘What's happening? Hawthorn?'

‘Master Cobbold argued with Sir Edward, it seems,' said Hawthorn. ‘But Sir Edward was determined, and Master Cobbold's that upset, that's why he talked so free to his butler. He's a law-abiding man; he doesn't feel he ought to interfere with the law and send to warn you, but he can hardly bear to think of what's going to happen! Well, my cousin doesn't like Sir Edward and his conscience isn't so tender but he wasn't sure he ought to come and warn you directly, either. But he had the chance of telling me so he did, and left it to me to decide. And I've got no doubt! I got back here as fast as Bronze could go and I've half-killed him, poor animal, but …'

I looked at Brockley. He was a man of courage but his eyes now were full of fear and his skin had turned almost grey with it. I shared that fear, which was for him, for Dale, for all I held dear at Hawkswood. Nothing would ever be the same if Brockley were taken and condemned.

‘Hawthorn,' I said, trying to keep my voice calm, ‘bless you for this warning. I think we have time to get away. We shall leave at dawn.'

‘Where are we going, madam?' Brockley enquired. His voice, too, was carefully calm.

‘London,' I said. ‘The best thing to do, anyway, if we want to find out more about Wyse. If he's our man, then somewhere in his life, in his past, there is something that is the key to all this mystery. I shan't write to Cecil now. I want to see him and Walsingham face to face and you're coming with me.'

‘So I'll be a fugitive from the law,' said Brockley bitterly. ‘I never thought to see the day.'

‘No fugitive,' I said. ‘We're not supposed to know Sir Edward's plans. I am going to London and, as part of your duties, you will escort me. But you'll be out of his reach for a while. I doubt if he'll chase you to Whitehall. He won't charge into Whitehall Palace or Cecil's house to lay hold of you. He'll most likely wait for us to return. And meanwhile, it's just possible we may find out something out that will
help
!'

T
he south of England in August can be so beautiful. The trees are heavy in leaf, the tracks bordered with long grass and white cow parsley, and the pinky-red of foxglove and valerian. Wheat is ripening into expanses of gold, starred with red poppies and blue cornflowers, and in the meadows, sleek cattle enjoy the rich grass and the sunshine on their backs. In our own pastures, my dappled mare Roundel was grazing contentedly with her second foal, now two months old, at her side. I have always loved such summer days.

But when we fled from Hawkswood before Heron's officers could get there, we raced through the August paradise without noticing it. When I say
we
, I mean myself, Brockley and Dale. Because we needed speed, I insisted that Dale should ride on her own and for her we took Rusty. I was on Jewel and Brockley rode his sturdy cob, Mealy. We went as fast as possible, galloping and walking alternately, to get the best out of the horses.

Before reaching London, we halted at a small inn, to refresh both the horses and ourselves. While we were hurriedly swallowing our ale and cold chicken, Brockley said quietly: ‘Madam, do you know exactly where we're going? The queen may still be away on her summer progress. If she is, Lord Burghley will be with her, and possibly Walsingham. Even if they're not away, they could be at their homes or at any of the Thames-side palaces.'

‘We're not going to London,' I said.

‘Not … Ma'am, what do you mean?' Dale asked.

‘Back at Hawkswood, I said we were, so when Sir Edward's officers arrive, everyone there will say London's where we've gone. They think it's true, so they won't have to lie and they'll sound convincing when the officers question them, as they assuredly will. In fact, Brockley, I wouldn't dream of taking you into London. I was talking nonsense when I said that Heron wouldn't send men to London after you. He'd only have to send one man – a messenger to the London authorities, stating that he had issued a new warrant for Brockley's arrest, and London would become a trap. Even Cecil and Walsingham might feel obliged to apprehend you. They have to uphold the law, and the authority of County Sheriffs. Oh, they can – as they did – give private advice, but if Heron insists on taking you in, they can't gainsay him. We're going to Norfolk instead. I think the questions we want to ask might be better asked in London, but as we dare not go there, let's see what we can learn at Wyse's home.'